The idea sends pins and needles down his spine, but when he turns around to scan the trees behind him, all he is greeted with is darkness and nothing else. Still, his safety tonight is not guaranteed. He opens a leathery pig’s bladder that hangs from his waist with his other pouches and pours some of the water he carries inside it onto the fire, extinguishing it in a hiss of smoke. The darkness is daunting, but he feels safer hidden inside of it.
Chapter Two
Ambrose wakes up in a state of panic and collects what little belongings he has brought with him before stumbling to his feet and wrapping his tunic around his lean frame. The forest has come alive. Red eyes and toothy grins stand out and taunt him from every direction. They advance, getting brighter and bigger and more menacing than anything he has ever seen. Ambrose doesn’t wait a moment longer, for fear of being seduced by the red eyes or bitten by the fanged teeth. He runs, and runs, and runs. He does not stop, not even when he hears footsteps approach him from all around and laughter that rattles through the trees.
Branches shaped like skeletal hands reach out for him and catch his tunic and pants as he races past. They claw at his face and grip his golden locks. He cries out for help, but he knows it is for naught. All his manic screams are met with is the maniacal laughter that gets louder and booms around him.
Eventually, after a frantic scuffle, he is able to pull himself from the nasty branches, but he trips over his own feet and falls over the edge of the forest. His breath catches inside his throat as he tumbles into complete darkness, with nothing but the rush of water that mutes the crazy laughter and accompanies his drop. He cannot see a thing. It’s as though he has gone blind.
He lands on a rock-hard surface and groans as his body collides with it with a sickening crack. His bones are broken. He cannot move. He cannot breathe or scream or call out for help.
But he can see. And what reveals itself to Ambrose fills him with equal amounts of relief and dread.
The cottage – ramshackle and quaint. Moss grows over its walls and a large willow tree sprouts from the earth behind it. From inside, a warm light glows. He hears music. Laughter. A woman singing along to the tune of a lyre…
That voice!
Ambrose attempts to call out to her, but still he cannot. The bones in his throat are broken. His jaw has been crushed from the fall.
Sister! His mind cries, and he wonders for a ridiculous moment if she can hear his thoughts over the sound of the music. Sister! I am here to bring you home! He doesn’t care for Gunther, nor does the beast warrant any urgency. His sister is at the forefront of his search.
But she doesn’t hear him. She only laughs and sings louder. The music swells into an obscure orchestra and fills Ambrose’s ears with madness.
He tries to move his fingers. Wiggle his toes. Nothing works. His body is dead.
Suddenly, a shadow crawls up the mossy wall of the cottage. Ominous and tall, its taloned hand reaches into the window. His sister screams. The music dies.
And so does Ambrose.
Chapter Three
Ambrose wakes up with a start. The scream that escapes his lips sends a flock of nameless birds soaring into the icy blue early morning sky overhead. He prods his body with manic hands – first his face and neck, chest then legs. He is fine. He is mobile. His bones are intact. He can continue on his journey.
He is cold from the chill of a new day and from the traumatic whispers of his nightmare that still linger in his skull. He pulls his tunic up to his ears and buries his chin into the coarse fabric. Night terrors aside, he is close to the cottage. He doesn’t know why he thinks this. He just does, as though it is something he can feel in the marrow of his bones.
Not much further. Keep going. Keep walking. Not much further. Keep going. Keep walking. He repeats these phrases like an unholy mantra, as though it will help to summon the right path before him as opposed to finding it for himself. But he stops when he notices how dark the forest has become when the blue sky disappears from his line of sight thanks to the trees swaying slightly in the morning breeze overhead. The forest is still and absolutely quiet. It’s almost like he is the last person alive in all the land.
Ambrose cannot help but ponder whether this is how the beast feels, and whether or not it explains the maniac’s logic of picking off and slaughtering the members of the little hamlet. There’s something nice about being alone in the wilderness, with no one but yourself for company and the silence that comes with living in absolute solitude. If Ambrose had it his way, that would be how he would like to live… With his sister by his side and Gunther the Vile out of the picture, of course.
Ambrose allows himself to pause for a moment and take a deep breath. He exhales through his nose. He inhales once more, and this time holds the air in his lungs until it feels as if they might split and pop. He lets the air rush out of his mouth loudly, into thick clouds that gather and blow in the crisp air in front of him.
He mulls over the last conversation he had with his sister the night before she escaped from the village with Gunther. She had been so quiet about her plans to leave, so much so, even Ambrose was left in the dark. That was what had hurt him the most. She was the only person he loved and could trust. He had hoped she felt the same, but apparently, she did not.
I’ll always be here for you, Ambrose, she’d said that evening as the two enjoying a bowl of porridge made with sprigs of lavender, nuts and honey. You know that, right?
Ambrose nodded and smiled. He was so naïve back then that thinking of it now makes him ill with embarrassment.
I will always love Gunther, but you’ll always be my brother. You come first, no matter what.
Damnable lies.
Ambrose spits and runs his long fingers through his hair, teasing out bits of twigs, grass and leaves. He feels suffocated by his tunic, but he doesn’t take it off. The morning chill still gnaws at his body and makes him uncomfortable.
What had his sister seen in Gunther that made her want to abandon Ambrose and leave the life she had behind for good? Was it the man’s strong, grizzled jaw or marble body? His thick black hair or the heavy sense of death and danger he carried in his eyes?
Gunther was a mighty warrior. He was revered throughout the land. People avoided looking him in the eyes at all costs and bowed at his feet whenever in his presence. Legend had it, he’d skinned a warlord during the Great War and kept her treasure in his cottage. No one messed with Gunther because he was otherworldly. A man like him shouldn’t exist. And yet, he did, much to Ambrose’s remorse.
Ambrose removes the little sword from his belt and swipes it through the air, pretending to attack Gunther and watch him bleed. The game only keeps him entertained for a matter of seconds, before something else at his feet catches his attention whole and Ambrose bends down to get a better look.
It’s a skull, that of a human. Covered in moss, it grins up at him and Ambrose jumps back with a shout. And that’s when he hears the rattle overhead.
Chapter Four
Rib bones. Jaw bones. Spines and teeth. They hang from the trees around him and jangle in the breeze.
Ambrose drops his sword and sinks to his knees, unable to tear his eyes from the carnage above. The beast was here. And, by the look of things, has made this his grotto for quite some time.
Shivering now, Ambrose leans forward as urgent bile rises up his throat. He lulls his head and vomits. He doesn’t stop, not even when water is the only thing that bursts from his lips.
Clutching his mouth with a trembling hand, Ambrose’s mind explodes like a hive of bees. What kind of madness is this? How can cruelty this depraved exist in a world like his own? Is there no god?
He scrambles to his feet, using his tiny sword as support and lunges through the thicket of bushes and trees, desperate to create as much distance between him and the madness that hangs from the trees as possible. He doesn’t stop running, even when he is certain he is far enough away, and his muscles turn to stone from the exertion. He pushes o
n, not daring to look back for fear that the beast has caught him in the grotto and is now after him – can smell him on the morning breeze that filters through the trees all around.
If the beast has been this deep inside the forest, who is to say the maniac hasn’t made an appearance at the cottage? When he arrives, eventually, will he find his sister alive or dead like the blacksmith’s daughter? Will her organs be removed? Will her bones be hanging in the trees? Will a blade be lodged into her stomach? Or will Gunther have protected her from the beast, like the leader expects him to protect the hamlet?
Ambrose’s nerves catch fire. Ants crawl underneath the flesh of his arms and he wants nothing more than to fill his lungs with breath, open his mouth and scream and scream and scream.
But he doesn’t scream. Doesn’t stop. Instead, he lunges forward and continues to slam one foot in front of the other as he charges through the forest. The red eyes and mad laughter from his nightmare rear their ugly heads in his mind and it makes him pick up his pace even more. His heart beats in his ears and kicks relentlessly against his ribs, threatening to burst. Still, he runs.
His right foot catches on a rock and he tumbles over mud and grass, and lands in a bubbling brook. The shock of the freezing water numbs his brain, but only for a second. His tunic, heavy and large, drags him deeper into the depths of the stream. Forcing his arms and legs to curl and kick, he reaches the other side of the brook and pulls himself out. He lies on the bank, frozen solid and gulping in air. His tunic presses him to the wet earth and holds him down like a wet embrace.
He was wrong. This is not some kind of quest or adventure he’ll look back on and chuckle about with his grandchildren one day. And the villagers were wrong in sending him to collect Gunther the Vile. He cannot complete this task. He doesn’t have it in him to. Not at all. He is a coward, of the first degree, with nothing more to his name than an estranged sister and the useless talent of singing and telling childish stories. Ambrose is pathetic.
The beast may as well claim his life tonight. There’s no better victim than he. The world doesn’t need him, doesn’t know him and doesn’t want him. What is the point in him being around for any longer than today?
He had one task – find the cottage. Bring Gunther to the village. It was that simple. And yet, he couldn’t even do that. He was probably lost. He thought he was close to the cottage earlier but now he certainly isn’t sure. All it took was witnessing something disturbing and he spiraled out of control.
Stupid, stupid little man.
No.
Stupid, stupid little boy.
His food pouches and pig bladders are missing, no doubt from the excitement of getting away from the grotto. He still has his knife, so he brings it to his hand and pushes the tip into the palm of his hand. He grits his teeth against the sting.
He stands up and heads toward the nearest tree. It is thin and twisted. It has no leaves. He swipes his bloody palm on the bark, leaving a red smear behind. This will be for the beast, so that the madman knows where to find him. Satisfied, he rinses his hand in the brook. His vision blurs, but he won’t allow himself to cry. He won’t.
As he pushes locks of his wet hair out of his face, he looks further ahead to see where to rest. Perhaps there is a hollowed-out tree big enough for him to squeeze into and sleep inside while he waits for the beast to find him.
What he finds instead, further away but not too distant, is a tiny cottage. It’s chimney smokes. Moss grows on its roof. A grizzled man with an axe sits on its porch.
Chapter Five
“Stay right there, little runt,” Gunther the Vile snaps as Ambrose approaches the cabin. “You won’t move another muscle unless you want your head removed by my axe.”
Ambrose, freezing from his tumble into the brook, hugs his chest and shivers. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end but it’s not from the cold, or from the water.
Gunther stands up from the porch and lumbers toward him. The man is a giant – all muscle and hair and deadly anger.
Stumbling backwards, Ambrose raises his hands to shield his face and squeaks, “I’m your wife’s brother!”
He hears the thud of Gunther’s boots against the grass come to a halt. A moment passes and only then does Ambrose gather what little courage he has to lower his hands.
Gunther wears a confused expression on his face, which thaws into one of realization. “Little runt,” his voice booms. “You’re taller than I remember.”
Ambrose gasps, his shoulders sagging slightly in relief. He’d never really known Gunther all that well before the brute took his sister and fled into the forest. In fact, in this moment, not a single conversation between the two of them comes to mind.
The tips of his fingers have gone numb, much like his nose and cheeks and feet. Ambrose wobbles where he stands but tries to right himself as best as he can. His eyes leap to the smoke curling from the chimney of the cottage.
“May I sit by your fire?” He asks, choosing his words carefully and willing the chatter from his teeth. “Please, sir?”
Gunther frowns and rests the axe on his shoulder. “No,” he says. “You may not.”
“Puh… Please?” Ambrose stutters, his mouth experiencing hardship at wrapping itself around his words. “I’m… So cold.”
Gunther shakes his head. “Just because you’re my sister’s brother does not mean you aren’t here to do me no harm.” He nods his head in the direction of Ambrose’s sword. “I see your weapon, little runt.”
“Pro…Protection, is all,” Ambrose manages to spit out. He cannot feel his lips.
Gunther rocks his head back and laughs. The sound echoes in the forest around them, ricocheting off trees and bouncing back at Ambrose.
When he finally stops laughing, Gunther narrows his eyes. Pointing his axe in Ambrose’s direction, he says, “Strip.”
Ambrose’s mind draws a blank. He cannot fathom exactly what the brute means, or why he’d want him to remove his clothes. The thought of stripping down in front of Gunther is nauseating. Humiliating, even.
“Do it,” Gunther snarls, pulling his lips back. The man is a monster.
“God in heaven, no!” Ambrose wants to die. But the look on his brother-in-law’s face is venomous and he is scared to do anything but what he is ordered to. Still, to strip in front of another man… And in this spiteful cold…
“I don’t ask twice, little runt.” Gunther takes another step toward Ambrose. Then another. He’s so close now, Ambrose can smell pinecones and cinnamon on the large man’s breath.
Before Ambrose even has time to plead with the other gentleman, Gunther has a hand in his golden hair and drags him to the wall of the cottage, which he throws him against. The side of Ambrose’s face connects with it, sending a searing pain through his skull.
Gunther spins him around to face him, and with the axe, cuts off Ambrose’s tunic, woolen shirt and pants until he is in nothing but his shoddy boots.
Ambrose wants to evaporate.
His brother-in-law rakes his cold eyes up and down Ambrose’s body, starting from his hair, to his chin, throat, chest, stomach and cock.
Gunther’s lips curl into a cruel grin. He reaches for Ambrose’s penis and tugs it between his large thumb and index finger. Ambrose holds his breath, too terrified to move, even when he feels a flicker come alive from just below the surface of his skin.
His brother-in-law lets go of Ambrose’s cock and leaves him pressed up against the wall naked. The cold is unbearable now, and his vision becomes patchy, his head light.
“Get on your knees,” he hears Gunther shout from close-by, so Ambrose sinks down and starts to pray.
Gunther returns with rope in his hand, which he winds around Ambrose’s wrists. When he’s done, he waits for Ambrose to stop praying, then chuckles. “There’s no god here, little runt. Just you, and me.” Gunther slaps Ambrose’s cheek gently. “You will remain with your hands tied and naked until I can trust you.”
But I’m your brot
her-in-law! Ambrose thinks, although barely. The frosty chill of the morning air is eating away at his brain. What if my sister sees me like this? What would she think?
Gunther yanks the rope and pulls Ambrose to his feet. He drags him along the grass and up the steps that lead to the porch. Ambrose cries out when his big toe presses into the sharp end of a rusted nail. Gunther doesn’t look back, not once. He leads him inside the cottage and slams the door shut. Then, he instructs Ambrose to lie by the fire.
Chapter Six
Ambrose is in the forest again, and, as before, he runs and runs and runs. He doesn’t let himself stop. The red eyes and hungry jaws are back, glaring down at him and snapping at the heels of his feet. He is naked, his body covered in bruises and cuts from where the branches of trees have snagged his skin and ripped it raw.
The forest is dark, and there seems to be no escape. Nothing but a blinding slice of light cutting through the trees. Ambrose doesn’t think twice. He bolts toward it as fast as his feet will carry him.
Whispers filter up from the mud and twigs and grass on the ground. Thousands of them, so many that Ambrose cannot tell what they are trying to say to him, he cannot understand. As he gets closer to the beam of light, he is joined by people at his side. It’s the blacksmith’s daughter. Old Lady Dawson. Benjamin Trait. The disemboweled shepherd boy found in the well. Together, they head for the blinding light. It is only when Ambrose dares to turn his head and look at his neighbors that he realizes it is their eyes that glow a violent red. Their jaws that snap and chomp.
Ambrose wakes with a start. He tries to sit up, but he cannot move. Something is holding his hands and legs to the floor. He shifts his gaze to look at his hands. They are tied to the floorboards with rope. He looks down. So are his ankles. His eyes scan the room, and it takes him longer than it should to work out and remember where he is.
Outlaws: A Romance Anthology Page 18